In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning
by cumberland river relic
Summary: Complete: Like the song says, the wee small hours of the morning are the hardest on Patrick Jane. What happens when the phone rings? Set sometime after episode 6x17, "Silver Wings of Time."
1. Regret

Author's notes:

Thank you to two great writers and friends, **make-mine-a-kiaora** and **Sue Shay**, for the opportunity to work with and learn from them. I especially appreciate make-mine-a-kiaora's critique of this story. (Sue was unable to due to scheduling.) Check out make-mine-a-kiaora's post-Red John story in the form of diary entries, "Dear Diary," and her other current story, "Muddy Melt Water"; and also check out Sue Shay's series "Mentalist 2pt0 Drabble Collection" (I favorited these in my profile for easy access.)

Please note: The tone of this story differs from other _Mentalist_ stories that I've written.

Few songs can match the despair, hopelessness, and regret of "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning," written by David Mann and Bob Hilliard in 1955. The song conveys an aching beauty. Listening to the Frank Sinatra version, I thought about how much the lyrics could apply to Patrick Jane after the events of episodes 6x16, "Violets," and 6x17, "Silver Wings of Time."

I do not own the TV show _The Mentalist_ and get no compensation from it. This story is written purely for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

After Angela and Charlotte died, sleep never came easily for Patrick Jane. Only with the death of Red John did he begin to return to even semi-normal sleep patterns. To his surprise, he had finally begun to be fully rested again in Texas. Until _it_ happened. Or rather, until _they_ happened. Since then he descended into depression again, albeit for a new reason. Even though seeing _her_ with _him_ around the office or at some nearby restaurant during the day sent daggers through Jane's heart, the pain welled up most at night. Now he sat alone in the Airstream, unable to do anything other than stare at the cold, blank wall. Alone, bereft of the one person who mattered to him, he knew that he had only himself to blame.

_It's my own fault. I never moved on. I took her for granted. I failed to see what was right in front of my eyes and in my own heart._

Every night he traipsed back to his aluminum-sided prison to wallow in what might have been. A loneliness seized him that no mind trick could hold at bay.

And then two weeks ago the phone calls started. How odd that he could speak most freely about his life and about her at 2am and share his true feelings. Although he knew he shouldn't, he actually enjoyed each nightly interlude. Nothing good could come of it, but he felt liberated nonetheless.

The ring of his phone startled Jane from his thoughts. For a moment he stared at it across the darkness, its flashing light reflecting off the surface of his kitchenette table. Tapping his lips with his index finger, he regarded the phone as if it were a birthday gift to unwrap. Taking a deep breath, he picked it up and flicked it on. A female voice he knew well purred in his ear.

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"You know you're not."

"Well, you never know. There's always the chance…"

"Not with me. You know that." Jane took a neutral tone with her, not one with any hint of self-pity.

"There could have been. There could yet be."

Her words stirred a feeling in him that had lain dormant. Jane the seducer, a creature that he had kept under wraps for years, surfaced.

"You intrigue me. Is that an offer? I didn't think you were in town."

The moment of silence on the other end of the line suggested that he had caught her off-guard. Her change of subject confirmed that.

"So, how did your meeting with Marcus go tonight?" she asked.

"_You're_ asking me about Marcus?"

"I am. Ever since you told me yesterday you were going to talk with him, I've wanted to hear your report of what happened. You are going to tell me, aren't you?" The way her tongue curled around her words stirred a physical change in Jane. Now it was a question of who the bigger seducer was.

He drew in a deep breath.

"It's like I said last night. It was a man-to-man talk, Patrick Jane to Marcus Pike."

"You promised to tell me the details."

"I did and I will. I made three statements. First, I stated that I, Patrick Jane, had loved Teresa Lisbon for years."

He heard a gasp. Then silence engulfed the other end of the phone line. After three beats Jane at last heard something. Her voice quavered.

"You said that out loud?"

"I did."

"How did he react?"

"He nodded and told me that he knew."

Jane heard her draw in a deep breath.

"Then what?"

"Second, I told him that I'd had my chance and never took it. I was a fool."

"You're not a fool, Patrick Jane. You have your shortcomings, but that's not one of them."

"Thank you. I take that as a compliment. Third, I stated that I'd never stand in the way of Teresa Lisbon's happiness. I told Marcus he was the better man, and as much as I hated to do so, I was stepping back."

"You said that?"

"I did."

"I must admit, I find a selfless act like that sexy."

"Really?"

"Really. You've gotten me, shall I say, all hot and bothered now."

He sensed that now was his chance.

"Too bad."

"What do you mean 'too bad'?"

Jane smiled to himself. He'd hooked her.

"Too bad you aren't in town. I'd like to…see where things might go with us. Oh well."

Now he expected the moment of silence he heard on the other end before she spoke.

"Who said I wasn't nearby?"

"I heard…"

"You heard wrong. A girl needs to keep a sense of mystery about her."

"You do that well, my dear."

"What if I told you I could be at the door of your Airstream in a half hour?"

"You're not afraid of being seen…by someone?"

"I'm not. And I know you'll never say anything. You're intrigued. You want to indulge something that's lurked in your mind for years. I can tell. I dare say you're looking forward to this as much as I am."

She was right about that.

"I can't wait to see you. Hurry."

"I'm on my way as we speak. I'll knock on your door in thirty minutes."

"Make it twenty-five. I await you, Erica Flynn."

* * *

To be continued.

* * *

Author's notes:

Erica Flynn appeared in episodes 3x19, "Every Rose Has Its Thorn," and 4x15, "War of the Roses."

The story concludes with Chapter 2.


	2. Chagrin

Author's notes:

Thank you to two great writers and friends, **make-mine-a-kiaora** and **Sue Shay**, for the opportunity to work with and learn from them. I especially appreciate make-mine-a-kiaora's critique of this story. (Sue was unable to due to scheduling.) Check out make-mine-a-kiaora's post-Red John story in the form of diary entries, "Dear Diary," and her other current story, "Muddy Melt Water"; and also check out Sue Shay's series "Mentalist 2pt0 Drabble Collection" (I favorited these in my profile for easy access.)

I do not own the TV show _The Mentalist_ and get no compensation from it. This story is written purely for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Precisely twenty-five minutes after finishing her call with Patrick Jane, Erica Flynn exited her car and walked toward the Airstream. Street lights burned blurry holes through the fog that had descended across the city. In the dead of the night she heard nothing - no low rumble of traffic, no jets flying overhead, only the tap-tap-tap of her shoes striking the pavement as she made her way along.

Of course she had known where Patrick was and what he was doing. She kept track of those things. He had surprised her though. Not the business about his feelings for Teresa Lisbon - she had seen that when she first met the two. What surprised her was that he had let Lisbon get away and then gave up.

Their conversations over the last two weeks intrigued her. Patrick Jane remained a contradiction. Here was a man who valued privacy, yet one who still charmed her with humor and grace. A man who, like her, had been running from the law, yet one who bent the system to serve his aims. A man who lost his heart to a woman, yet then let her slip away. He reminded Erica of herself - the seducer, the schemer, the con artist. But in their phone calls she heard something else that she'd never expected - a broken man. His frankness shocked her. Despite her inner voice that said to leave him alone, her attraction to him had grown. She remembered the taste of his lips and ached to feel more of him.

Patrick Jane was an itch that Erica Flynn had to scratch.

Just as her hand reached out to rap on the door, it swung open to reveal the man himself. He was clad in navy blue pants and a white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone. His growth of beard gave a rakish cast to his face. Despite her well-honed self-control, her breath caught. She would have dismissed any other man his age who looked like that as a poser. With him however it aroused her more. Handsome and scruffy at the same time, he embodied sexual heat.

"Erica Flynn. I didn't think I'd ever see you again _in the flesh_."

She noted the emphasis he put on the words, "in the flesh." His sentence didn't need them to complete the thought, yet he tacked them on. At the same time she noticed that his gaze fell to the azure dress she wore. Crafted for her by a designer who himself was on the run from the law for tax evasion, its cleavage drew in every man who saw it. Patrick was no exception. In fact, standing above her in the doorway, he had a vantage point other men would kill for. She froze for a moment, letting him drink in the sight below him.

"Are you going to invite me in?"

Patrick cast a glance around the Airstream before he answered.

"Isn't this a little low-rent for your taste?"

"It has a certain charm to it, Patrick. No doubt you convinced your new employer to get this for you."

"I did."

He stepped aside. She stepped on board. As her leg brushed past his body, she felt his aroused manhood. It made her smile. And tingle.

_This will be good._

Without asking, she took a seat on one side of the table. After shutting the door, he turned to face her. His blue-green eyes flashed at her, and despite herself she flushed.

"I don't have much to offer you to drink." He opened a cabinet above the sink to reveal a box of tea bags, three cans of diet soda, and a whiskey bottle.

"Do I see Jack Daniels up there?"

"Yes. What would you like to mix it with?"

"Nothing. Bring it over here."

An amused look on his face, Patrick grabbed the whiskey bottle and two shot glasses. Taking a seat across from her, he filled the first glass and slid it to her. Then he repeated the action with his own glass.

"To possibilities." He raised his shot glass in toast.

"To us." Erica touched the rim of her shot glass to her lips and held it still for a moment, all the while locking her gaze on Patrick. When he brought his glass to his own lips, they both tipped back to down their drinks. As she thunked her glass on the table, she saw his eyes focus on it. Now the bright red shade of her lipstick marked the rim.

"I can tell two things about you, Patrick."

"Enlighten me."

"One thing is that you love Lisbon as much as you loved your wife."

His facial expression never changed. That confirmed her statement.

"And the second is?"

"You squandered your chance with her, just like you said." She scanned the room around them. "Once Red John was out of the way and you'd set up this new FBI-supported life, you had your opportunity. But for whatever reason, cowardice or fear or…the feeling that you weren't good enough for Saint Teresa, you failed to act. You hesitated. A very un-Jane-like behavior from what I've seen. And what happened? This Marcus Pike person swooped in and took her away from you."

Now she got a reaction out of him - a twitch appeared under one eye.

"Tell me something I don't know."

"You're lost. You're bitter. You can't have Saint Teresa."

"You have something else in mind? Something other than this?" He casually waved his hand around at the walls of the Airstream.

"We're cast from the same mold, Patrick. We both know your talents are wasting away here. We could be good for each other professionally. And personally." She brushed the tips of her fingers across his hand and smiled.

Rather than answer, he opened the whiskey bottle and poured another round. He knocked back his shot immediately. In contrast, Erica raised her glass to her lips then slowly tipped her head backwards. At a languid pace she let the whiskey trickle into her mouth and throat. Her head still at an angle, she glanced across the table to find Patrick staring at her with the hungry look of a wolf.

_I've got him._

Taking her time, Erica placed the shot glass back on the table. With a well-practiced move, she narrowed her eyes to rivet his attention on her face. Then she circled her lips with her tongue.

Erica felt Patrick's fingers as they threaded between hers. Looking into his eyes, she saw an intense desire, a yearning. The way he looked at her made her shudder; a primal energy cut through the space between them. They were two panthers circling each other. Both knew what they wanted. Their mating ritual was torture and foreplay mixed as one; it would lead to a climax that left them both sated and exhausted.

And what then? She had learned enough over the past two weeks to know that Patrick had no ties to this life other than Teresa Lisbon. With Lisbon out of the picture, he could and would return to life as a fugitive. It was only a matter of time. He could join her on the run. But for how long? That didn't matter. They would stay together as long as they took pleasure from each other, then they would part company with pleasant memories.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Patrick withdrew his hands from hers. Walking to the door, he opened it to reveal two people. As they climbed into the Airstream, Erica got a close look at the pair - a bald, middle-aged man wearing khakis and a young emaciated woman wearing a cream-colored blouse.

_Feds._

"Look who's here! It's my wacky next door neighbors Fred and Ethel."

Erica sighed. She had gambled on the situation being something else. And she lost. But she'd never give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her chagrin.

"Is this her, Jane?" the man asked.

"Of course it is. Have I ever lied to you before?" The man scowled at Patrick but he answered with a grin before turning his attention back to Erica. "Okay, these really aren't my neighbors, but you guessed that already. Erica Flynn, allow me to introduce you to Agents Dennis Abbott and Kim Fischer of the FBI." He glanced back to the agents. "Erica is the fugitive I told you about. She was serving a sentence in California for murdering her husband before she escaped."

"Yeah, about that. According to her file, she was in your custody when she escaped," Agent Fischer said.

Patrick rolled his eyes before he waved his hand at the woman.

"Details, details. What's important right now is that there's someone in here who fled the authorities."

"Actually, there's two such people in here by my count," Agent Abbott said.

"Focus, Dennis, focus. We're talking about _current_ fugitives."

Abbott sighed.

"Ms. Flynn, we'll be taking you into custody until you're transported to California."

The man took two steps toward her before she held up her hand.

"Agent Abbott, may I have five minutes alone with Patrick before we leave?"

She saw both agents' eyebrows raise when she used the name "Patrick." Obviously it surprised them to hear her use his first name. That coupled with Patrick's actions told her that his life as a hermit hadn't changed. Pity.

"Ms. Flynn…" She saw the standard-issue serious expression that law enforcement types all relied on. She cut him off before he could finish his sentence.

"Don't worry. We won't be copulating." She laughed at the shock on the agents' faces. "If Patrick and I did that, it would last at least three hours and you'd be standing on your tiptoes watching through the window."

Even in her darkest moments, Erica still delighted in exerting what control she had. When the two agents at last lifted their jaws off the floor, they couldn't leave her presence fast enough. Abbott glanced over his shoulder as he swung the door closed.

"Five minutes, Ms. Flynn."

She turned back to Patrick.

"You've been here less than a year, and you have them wrapped around your finger. Neither of them wanted to be here tonight. Taking a state prison escapee into custody isn't how they earn their paycheck, but you forced them to do your will." She ran her finger around the edge of his lips. "By the way, I enjoyed our conversations over the last two weeks. Even though your deception worked on me. You're quite a skilled liar, Patrick Jane. I'm impressed."

"And I'm impressed with you. Bravo. You've still got it."

"Yes, I've still got it. Too bad you and I didn't get to share it." She brought their lips together in a kiss that lingered long enough for him to become a participant. When she sensed the re-arousal of his manhood, she cut off the kiss and took a step back. "Maybe I'll request you for a conjugal visit in prison."

"You manipulated me back in California, Erica."

"I did, didn't I? How did it feel to be treated the same way you've treated everyone else in your life?"

She saw the mask fall from his face. Only for a moment, but she saw it. The truth hurt, and she had scored a direct hit. It almost made it worth going back to jail. Almost.

"It's time for you to leave, Erica."

"We both know what will happen. When I go back to jail, I'll use people to get the best living arrangements, string some sugar daddy along to provide the creature comforts I crave, and get sprung from jail well before my sentence says I should. A few well-placed contacts with the parole board will free me sooner rather than later. If you haven't died from your broken heart, look me up when I get out."

Patrick reached over and pounded the wall of the Airstream three times. Then he yelled loud enough to be heard outside.

"Come and get her. We're finished in here."

Nothing happened for a moment. Then the door creaked open. With a halting motion, Agent Fischer poked her head inside.

Obviously the female agent lost the coin toss with Abbott. She looked at her as if Erica were a fire-breathing dragon. Fischer didn't look like the type to get intimidated yet she was now. Which was exactly the way Erica wanted things.

As she walked past Patrick to the door, Erica let her hand drop to brush across his slacks. She grinned at him then turned her attention back to a badly shaken Agent Fischer. In awe (_or was it fear?_), the agent took a step back to let Erica by. Stopping on the doorway's step, she glanced once more at Patrick.

"It would have been good. _We_ would have been good, Patrick."

* * *

Jane heard car doors open and close followed by the start of an engine. After the thunk of shifting into gear, the sound of the car faded as it crossed the parking lot and turned out onto the street. The silence of the night returned as did his melancholy.

Twice now he'd had a woman in his life who was good and decent and kind, someone who inspired him to be a better man. Twice in his life he had loved those women. And twice now he had experienced the pain of loss. He shuddered at the future that lay before him - an unending stretch of loneliness seasoned with regret.

Tonight Erica Flynn had called him skilled liar. She was right. But she of all people should realize that the best lies sprang from the truth.

Looking at his bedside table, Patrick focused on a pair of photos he kept side-by-side. The first was a wedding picture of Angela and him. They were young, eager, and ready to take on life. The second was one of Teresa and him made at a CBI fundraiser years ago. Their arms around each other, they were dancing as if in a world all their own. In both pictures the women were smiling and happy. So was he.

He stared at the two pictures until his eyes blurred from tears.

* * *

The end.


End file.
